I've never liked churchyards. My strange and strict religious upbringing made sure of that. Not for me those pretty images of gentle Jesus, meek and mild. Oh no! The promise I received at my grandfather's knee was of anger and retribution; hellfire and damnation; sinners burning in eternal hell.
The day of judgement was my particular agony. I had nightmare visions of all my loved ones being led exultantly into the Garden of Eden, while I, cast from the Divine presence, would be forced by the Red Devil with the three-pronged fork into the agony of the everlasting fire.
Despite the subsequent plating of rationality, the feelings are still there, to break through on occasions when emotion overrules logic - the curse of Eve in childbirth, the departing soul in death. And churchyards! I still cannot pass one without imagining the sound of trumpets and bodies rising from the graves towards their last judgement.
So why did I go through that churchyard last week at dusk - the eeriest time of all when long shadows move with the swaying trees to create sinister threatening images? I should have known better. After all I had seen that 666 on the gate post only a month before. That, too, brought shades of my religious past. The apocalyptic number from Revelations, 13, Verse 18 "...count the number of the beast...his number is six hundred, three score and six."
Last Thursday, though, I'd been to a study session on the use of computers. Logical, soulless things that they are, they left me in one of my more rational moods. It was pouring with rain, and the short-cut through the churchyard would take twenty minutes off the walk to grandfather's house, though God alone knows why I wanted to visit the old misery. It would be yet another lecture on the sins of this world and my lack of thought for the life of the next. Always there was the implication that I was bringing God's wrath to the third and fourth generation.
I looked again at the faint marks, still showing on the gatepost despite the efforts of the churchwarden to remove it.
"Don't be stupid. You know that writing of 666 was proved to be the work of children," I said to myself, as I pulled my collar closer round my face and stepped out bravely.
It was when I'd nearly reached the church door, just where the path turns to the right, that I heard the slow ringing of a bell. It was as unfamiliar as it was unexpected. It wasn't a big sound like the church bells, and it did not have the harsh tones of a bicycle bell. There was nothing intrinsically frightening about its gentle soft tinkle, but I could feel the cold trickle of fear running down my spine. I peered down the path in the direction of the sound but could see nothing in the murky gloom.
I clenched my teeth and pressed on - anyway it was nearly as far to go back to get out of the churchyard as to go forward. Then I saw a light. I thought at first it was perhaps children playing with a torch, but as I watched it seemed to be the wrong kind of light - soft and flickering more like a candle. Slowly I realised that it was coming from exactly the same spot as the sound of the bell, though I could see nobody there.
I pulled my collar tighter, put my head down and started to run towards the gate, but was pulled up short by a pair of black shoes suddenly blocking my path. I stepped to the right to pass them. The shoes stepped to the right. I stepped back again. The shoes mirrored my movement. Mesmerised by the shoes, I repeated the action to the left with the same result. Visions of rape and even murder passed through my mind as I fought to draw breath into my constricted lungs.
"Stay calm. Don't do anything to make him panic." That was what I had been told. Easier said than done, but I clenched my hands and forced my head to lift slowly. Black! Black! Black! Black shoes, black socks, a long black skirt. No not a skirt - a cassock. Relief shot through me, leaving me weak and unsteady.
"Oh Father," I gasped. "You nearly frightened the life out of me."
The priest did not answer, and I suddenly became aware of the silence. No rumble of distant traffic. No rustle from the wind in the trees. Even the falling rain made no sound. Raising my eyes, I saw the bell hanging on a cord. It was bright and small and beautiful against the black habit, its soft sheen reflecting a gentle flickering light. Well, that explained the bell, I thought with a sigh of relief, and as I looked up further, I saw the light. The candle burned brightly despite the teaming rain. The long bony hand that held it was stretched out towards me, and instinctively I stepped back away from it.
I looked towards the other hand and saw that it carried a book held open, its gold-edged pages revealing its identity. The slender fingers snapped the Bible shut, and as I looked into the face of the stranger the candle was extinguished. In the disappearing light it seemed there was no face there.
I turned and fled, back the way I'd come, running and stumbling out of the churchyard. All thoughts of going to grandfather's were forgotten as I dashed through the sodden streets towards my own home and some degree of safety. I ran up the path and banged frantically on the front door until my mother opened it, so suddenly that I nearly fell into the hall. I snatched the door from her and slammed it shut. Then there was another bell; this time, the warm familiar ring of the telephone.
I leant on the wall and gasped for breath as my mother answered it, then she turned to me, her face a ghostly white. "That was grandmother," she gasped "Your Grandfather died five minutes ago."
Grandfather died - five minutes ago, when I was in the churchyard! My legs gave way and slowly I slid to the floor.
"Whatever's the matter with you?" asked my mother as she reached out to grab me. "You look as if you've seen a ghost."
"I think I have," I whispered.